


Morals Of An Alley Cat

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Harry Potter, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Feminization, Harry in Panties, Harry in Stockings, Harry in a skirt, M/M, Neko harry potter, Oral Sex, Professor Tom Riddle, Pseudo-Incest, Top Tom Riddle, and Tom, like a tiny bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 08:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: Tom comes across Harry, who is suffering the affects of catnip. This is definitely not planned.





	Morals Of An Alley Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Thank you so much to [Wolven_Spirits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits/pseuds/Wolven_Spirits) for betaing for me 💖
> 
> This thing can be wholly blamed on Kami, who not only gave me all the ideas but also drew me fantastic art to go with it, so really, this was inevitable.
> 
> Also, mind the tags. Harry is underage in this, drugged on basically an aphrodisiac, and Tom is both his professor and pseudo-uncle.

Tom sighed, bored and irritated as he walked up the stone steps to Dumbledore's office. He had things to do, work to mark and people to see, but instead of completing his carefully scheduled tasks, he found himself running to the opposite side of the castle on the Headmaster's whim.

It wouldn't even be a bother, despite the fact that Tom made no secret of his dislike of Albus Dumbledore. No, he wouldn't really mind, except that Dumbledore _ always_ informed him of their meetings about 5 minutes before they were scheduled to start.

So here he was, scowling and annoyed as he opened the doors to the Headmaster's office, stalking in as if he owned the place. It was only once he'd sat down in his usual chair that he realised that someone else had been invited along too.

"Snape," he nodded, before turning back to Dumbledore with an eyebrow raised.

"Riddle." Snape scowled in reply. He looked just about as miserable as always, which Tom supposed was just his natural state of being.

Dumbledore smiled genially at the both of them, steepling his fingers before him. "Right, gentlemen," he said. "Severus here had an enquiry, Mr Riddle, one that we both felt _ you'd _be best equipped to answer."

Tom hummed noncommittally, choosing not to say anything, and turned his gaze from Dumbledore to Snape. The man's face was twisted in a slight sneer, but Tom didn't take it personally—he rather thought Snape's face just _ looked _like that by now, by virtue of him never smiling.

"It is regarding Mr Potter," Snape started, and Tom couldn't help himself leaning forwards at the name. "He's… like you, isn't he?" Snape continued, gesturing vaguely up towards his head, as if there was something wrong with Tom. "You'd know what would... _ affect_ him."

"I suppose I would," Tom replied coolly.

Snape nodded. "What about catnip?" he asked, and suddenly—with only one word—Tom saw an opportunity. It was risky, and very questionable, but Tom had never been too morally righteous.

So instead of telling Snape what he needed to know—that catnip would most definitely affect Harry Potter in the most delicious ways—he smiled calmly. "Whatever do you need _ catnip_ for?" he asked, as if the perfect plan wasn't forming in his head at that very moment.

"For the Potion's class tomorrow," Snape said. Then again, "So? Will it affect him?"

And Tom folded his hands over one another, and shook his head. "Catnip doesn't affect me whatsoever," he replied. "It should be completely safe for Harry."

He couldn't wait until tomorrow.

* * *

Later, he found himself in his armchair, a glass of brandy on the coffee table beside him. The fire roared before him, flushing his skin pleasantly warm, and though Tom tried to control himself, he found his mind wandering to the possibilities of the next day.

Harry's potions class would be both fourth and fifth periods, he knew—right after lunch and through to the end of the day. It meant that, when his little kitten inevitably ran out of his classroom tomorrow, flushed and embarrassed and too lost in his panicked lust to see straight, he wouldn't be missed until late evening.

Not by any teachers, at the very least.

And Tom had carefully cleared his schedule in preparation, made sure to let anyone and everyone know he'd be busy, and that he wasn't to be disturbed for anything. He was _ excited_—an emotion he hadn't felt in far too long, and it made the brandy he sipped on hit harder than usual.

Tom had known Harry for far longer than was perhaps appropriate, what with the thoughts running through his head. That was not to say that his plans were very proper _ now_, but Tom had seen Harry grow up. He'd visited the boy and his family each Christmas without fail, an old friend and ex-professor of both the adult Potters, and by the time Harry was eight, Tom was a common sight in the household.

He'd watched the boy, small and endlessly sweet, as he flew around on his little broom, and entertained his loud and frantic stories about nothing in particular with both amusement and boundless patience. He'd watched Harry grow into an equally sweet child, polite and kind and much too soft in the way his heart broke for even the spiders in the garden. And he'd watched, finally, as Harry sauntered around Hogwarts in a skirt, bending down in front of him like he was trying to tempt Tom, like he _ wanted _Tom to ruin him.

Harry had always been close to him, had always liked to climb up onto Tom's lap as soon as he came home to find Tom there, sitting on the couch. But he hadn't ceased the habit as he had with his parents and godfather, and it had started to wreak havoc on Tom's morality—not that he had much to begin with.

Now, Tom couldn't stop imagining Harry on his lap again, his stockinged legs spread on either side of Tom's thighs, his hands clutching at Tom while he gasped and stretched around Tom's cock. He imagined Harry leaning back against him, imagined the smell of his hair, the warmth of his body, and the sweet little sounds he'd make while Tom fucked him.

His hand slid down to his cock, pressing against the front of his trousers as if to control the urge that arise in him. But he was so warm, so wonderfully aroused, and he was so looking forward to seeing Harry tomorrow that there was no stopping himself. And he'd felt ashamed, the first time he'd wanked off to Harry, but it had been so long since he'd started. He'd touched himself so many times with the memory of Harry's pink mouth and soft skin and dark hair that Tom couldn't even _ pretend_ to feel guilty anymore. Or rather, he'd long-since decided that the guilt couldn't stop him, and so stopped giving the heavy feeling in his chest any attention.

He imagined what it might be like tomorrow, Harry dazed and in heat, arching his back like a slut for Tom to give him what he needed, and groaned loudly. What would Harry say? What would he do, after, knowing he'd been desperate and eager for his pseudo-uncle to fuck him in some darkened corner of the school? Would he let Tom at his arse again, aware this time, shy and sweet and eager all at the same time? Or perhaps he would run from Tom, make him chase after Harry like they were wild beasts, like Harry a queen in heat.

Tom didn't know which he'd prefer more. He found himself wanting Harry in all the ways possible, wanted to hunt him down and tie him up and fuck him so hard Harry wouldn't be able to walk the next day. He thought about everything from Harry's loose, wet arse to flicking up his skirt as he walked, sneaking a look at his panties before Harry hastily smoothed it back down to preserve his modesty. He imagined Harry tomorrow, his loud, rude mouth wrapped around Tom's cock like it belonged there, like it was made to suck him off, and he came all over his own hand.

'_ Tomorrow_,' he promised himself. ' _ Tomorrow_.'

* * *

The smell of the plant was odd—not _ nice_, really, but _ evocative _in some way. It made something peculiar arise in his stomach, almost like he was going to be sick, but without the nausea and unhappiness. A part of him wanted to stay in the ingredients cupboard and explore the feeling, spend time familiarising himself with the plant, but he could practically _ feel _Snape's suspicious glare on the half-open door, so he hurried out and towards Ron.

A short while later, he found himself cutting up the catnip while Ron tried to figure out the correct amount of beetle juice needed. The odd, trembly feeling in his stomach had increasingly warmed since the start of the lesson, so much so that Ron paused in his measuring and looked at him worriedly.

"You alright, mate?" he asked, frowning.

Harry tried to smile reassuringly, though by the look on Ron's face, it didn't really work. "Yeah, I'm fine," he insisted when it seemed like Ron might run to Hermione or, god forbid, Snape.

He was not alright. Ten minutes later, Harry found himself becoming irritated and snappy and uncomfortably hot. His tail felt ridiculously sensitive, even to the slight chill of the dungeons. His ears twitched uncontrollably, and he felt the overwhelming urge to sink his fangs into something fleshy, whether it was Ron's muscled arm or his own hand. He needed, more than anything, to walk around—standing in one place was driving him absolutely mental—but faced with the reality of Snape's watchful eyes, he found himself instead ready to break something.

And then Ron seemed to decide that enough is enough. He pressed his hand against Harry's forehead without warning, scowling at him when he hissed in surprise. "You're way too hot, and your pupils are dilating so much I can barely see your irises," he murmured. "You need Madam Pomfrey." 

Harry swatted at his hand, gripping at the edge of the table to calm down. He was horrified to realise his eyes were stinging with tears, but mostly, he found himself mortified at the erection he could feel forming. "I think—" he started, then leaned down to grab his bag and began to shove his parchment and quills into it. He didn't care if Snape took points or even gave him detention—he couldn't be here any longer.

Ron put a warm, calm hand on his shoulder, making him still from his rush. "Want me to walk you?" he asked. It took Harry a moment to realise what he was saying—his mind felt so hazy and preoccupied—but he blinked slowly and shook his head.

"I'll be fine,” he whispered, and stalked out of the room for the nearest toilet, his tail lashing behind him agitatedly.

He didn't need Madam Pomfrey. He needed privacy.

* * *

The cold porcelain of the sink felt like heaven against his burning skin. Harry ran the water as cold as it would go, bent over to press his cheek against the rim of the sink, and lapped lazily at the running water. He still felt frustrated and hard, the itch under his skin too potent to ignore, but he hadn't quite fallen to the level of wanking in the school toilets yet.

He had _ standards_, thank you very much.

And so he stayed there, his back arched into a position that felt strangely comfortable, his tail swishing high from side to side as he tried to calm himself down. His cock was hard and poked insistently into the cotton of his underwear, but Harry tried valiantly to ignore it. Maybe if he pretended it wasn't there, it would go away?

And yet, instead of calming down, Harry was only getting more and more desperate as time went on. He felt oddly hungry, his mouth so wet he may as well have been looking at the full spread of a Hogwarts dinner. 

Except it wasn't really food he was hungry for. Almost as if on instinct, Harry stuck his fingers into his mouth and sucked on them, humming when he found them tasting oddly spicy. He realised too late that there was still some essence of the leaves he'd cut in potions on them, and for a second he felt like he was at the edge of some sort of understanding. But then the flush exploded through his body, like drinking hot chocolate on a freezing day, or walking into a sauna, and Harry could think of nothing but the burning in his veins.

He tried to cool down and distract himself, but instead found himself desperate for some sort of stimulation. Shifting, he closed the tap and gripped hard at the edge of the sink, and without his permission, a loud _ yowl_ escaped his throat.

It felt natural, instinctive in some way. He thought about the potions class only a hallway away, but couldn't help himself. He whined again, loud and clear and unashamed despite the fingers still in his wet, wet mouth, and bent his back so that his arse was in the air.

And then he felt, unmistakably, a man pressing his hips into Harry's butt.

He jumped up, ready to turn and slash at whoever had gotten this close, but the man grabbed both of Harry's wrists in one of his hands so easily that it shocked him into stillness. He wrapped the other arm around Harry's waist, pulling them tightly and nudged his nose into Harry's hair. They were so close that Harry could feel the man's cock, the large and prominent shape of it, even through all the fabric between them.

"So feisty," he laughed, and Harry realised that he knew that voice, and knew it intimately. "For someone calling so desperately for attention, that wasn't a very warm welcome, was it?"

He looked up, and there in the mirror he saw Tom, looking perfect and unruffled. He was smirking at Harry, his brown eyes practically glowing red in the dim lighting, and his pupils so thin they seemed like a knife's edge. "Well?" he murmured, pulling Harry's hands behind him and into the small of his back. He grabbed onto the back of Harry's neck with the other, forcing him back down slowly and steadily, until he was once again bent over.

Harry knew he shouldn't be doing this, knew it was inappropriate. Not only was Tom his professor, but also something like an uncle to Harry, and was even older than Harry's parents! But even though he felt the slight shadow of shame and trepidation, it was loudly drowned out by his lust. All he could think about was the way Tom's cock was pressing against his arse, how firm his hands were and how good his touch felt. He wanted nothing more than to stay like this, his arse up in the air, and let Tom absolutely _ ruin_ him.

"That's good, kitten, that's good," Tom murmured, glee in his voice. He seemed greedy, _ hungry _in a way that should have scared Harry, but there was nothing but desperate arousal left in him.

_ 'Please_,' he wanted to say, but all that came out was another whine. It echoed against the tiled walls, but Tom didn't seem to be worried about being heard. He laughed and moved back just enough that his hips were no longer pressed up against Harry.

Harry didn't like that. He rocked back, trying to push into against his professor despite the hand holding his neck in place. But Tom didn't give him what he wanted. Harry could feel his tail rising up and to the side, his skirt falling up onto his back to reveal his underwear. There was an aborted gasp behind him, like something had surprised Tom, but when Harry tried to look at his face, he found the grip of Tom's hands remained just as firm. He settled for trying to catch a glimpse in the mirror, and found Tom looking down at his arse with an air of wonder and arousal.

"You really are a gift, darling" he murmured, and reached down to where Harry couldn't see.

"Tom-" he started, but Tom snapped the elastic of his underwear against Harry's skin, and he cut off with a gasp. He pushed his arse sharply upwards, wanting to explore the sensation, but Tom held him firm. He traced a finger along the line of his panties, nudging just slightly into skin that must be turning red. The tips of his fingers teased just under the elastic, so softly and slowly, it felt like Harry's entire world had narrowed down to that one place.

Tom hooked his finger around the edge, lifting the fabric away from his skin again. Harry tensed expectantly, not sure whether the anticipation was a product of excitement or apprehension, but it was still a surprise when Tom snapped it against his skin again. It was more acute this time, perhaps because it had hit the same place twice. Harry couldn't help but shout when Tom pressed his nails into the sting, making it sharper and keener.

"Please," he gasped, his eyes going blurry. He felt so warm he thought that perhaps he had a fever, except he just felt the urge to touch himself. Tom laughed, low and dark in his ear, but he had mercy on Harry and pushed his hand up the front of Harry's skirt. He traced the shape of Harry's dick through his panties, his fingers firm and squeezing hard enough to make him cry out and thrust into Tom's hand.

It still wasn't enough.

And then it didn't matter, because his professor was moving back and turning him around and making him fall to his knees until he was looking up through his lashes at eyes so red they looked like blood. Tom's fingers were in his hair, right between his twitching ears, and he used his grip to move Harry's head just _ so_—his lips touching Tom's crotch so gently it was practically negligible.

And Harry's mouth was so wet, so empty, as if he was looking at treacle tart and not at Tom's grey slacks. But he was eager, yearning in a way that escaped him for now, and all he could do was look up pleadingly and whine.

His professor's smile went a little soft, more like the Tom Harry knew, and his grip in Harry's hair gentled until he was petting him. "Go on," he said kindly. "Take what you need."

And Harry, almost without realising what he was doing, unzipped Tom's trousers and pulled out his dick.

It was larger than what Harry was familiar with, though that might have been because the only cocks Harry had seen were teenage ones. It was flushed and long and pink and slick with Tom's precum. His balls were heavy underneath them, and Harry felt the desire to play with the skin there. He let himself do just that, licking at the head and then mouthing at the balls, exploring at his leisure until Tom became impatient.

"Come on, Harry," he said, slight chastisement on his tone. "Don't keep me waiting."

Harry whined a little, licking at Tom's cock messily so that it felt like his face was covered in precum and spit. "Tom," he said. "Professor."

And Tom seemed to understand just fine. He forced Harry's head back so his mouth hung open, and with his other hand hand, steadied his erection. He didn't break eye contact while he fed it to Harry, driving it into him inch by inch until Harry's eyes were watering, and his throat too full.

He kept his cock there, in Harry's throat, like he was just a toy. Tom's tail slid around his body, wrapped around Harry's throat as if he wanted to feel how full he was. As if he wanted to feel the shape of his own cock through the sheath of Harry's neck.

"Good boy," he murmured, rocking the slightest bit so that it felt like he was perpetually thrusting deeper into Harry's mouth. Tom’s tail tightened, constricting until Harry could feel the pressure both inside and outside his throat, and he felt his vision going dark at the edges. He could feel his tears flowing freely now, and could feel his throat convulsing and his tongue licking and his jaw aching with the stretch. He wanted to move himself off Tom's cock. He reached for Tom's hips like he couldn't stop himself, but it didn't matter either way. Tom would take what he wanted, no matter how it felt for Harry, and Harry would let him.

By the time Tom let him go, sliding his shiny cock out of Harry's mouth, he felt faint. His chest hurt, his lungs stretching for air, his nails scrabbling at Tom's hips, but at the same time he felt far away and hazy.

Tom appeared pleased, his hand in Harry's hair once again gentle."You're so good to me, darling,” he crooned at Harry. He stroked his index finger along Harry's ear, then the other, and Harry shuddered at the sensation. It was odd how sensitive he felt there, but the touch went straight to his brain and his cock. Distantly, Harry thought that his panties were probably soaked. His knees hurt from the tiled floor, his stockings doing nothing to ease the pain, and his jaw ached so harshly it felt like he'd never be able to shut it again. He found, surprisingly, that he loved it.

Eagerly, Harry moved forward to suck on Tom's cock again, sliding himself down onto it like he'd done it a million times. Tom laughed at him, fucking his mouth now, gentle but getting faster with every thrust. "Look at you, you little slut," he groaned, holding Harry's hand in place on his hip. "How many cocks have you sucked already? How many boys have come down your throat?"

Harry moaned wordlessly, too busy mouthing at Tom's cock. It only made Tom laugh harder. "I bet you've sucked them all, haven't you? I bet you've let _ every _boy have a go, so greedy for them that you've run out of boys to fuck. Maybe I didn't even have to plan this," he continued. "Maybe you'd have come to me yourself, if I was just a little more patient, and _ begged_ me to fuck you."

And Harry felt confused, because how had Tom planned _ this_? Hadn't he just been here in the wrong place and the wrong time? Hadn't he just passed by and smelled him, seen Harry, and offered to help him relieve the pain in his sex? Harry wanted to ask Tom, or _ thought _about asking Tom, except there were more important things to do then.

Tom was coming down his throat, and Harry was still hungry. And Tom looked at his face, pulling his wet dick from Harry's mouth, and he understood.

"Come on then, you darling boy," he said. "Bend over, and show us your pussy."

There was a beat of stillness, of silence, where Harry didn't know how to react. Tom had said a lot to him, but somehow that word felt more vulgar than all of it combined. He felt like he should hate it—he was still a boy, despite the fact that he wore panties and stockings and skirts—but he didn't.

It had gone straight to his dick.

"Tom," he said, pretending uselessly at shame. "What are you doing? What are _ we _ doing?" But Tom as having none of it. He grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt and dragged him up until he was standing on the tips of his toes, their mouths just inches apart.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he said. He looked positively feral from this distance, his teeth bared in what might have been a smile, or could have been a snarl. "Didn't you want me to fuck your cunt?" And he turned Harry to bend him over again.

His hand felt impossibly large and hot on Harry's back. He lifted Harry's skirt again, and then pushed the back of his underwear to the side so that he could see Harry's arse. "Fuck!" Harry exclaimed then, excited and shivering, because the cold felt that much colder when he felt so fevered. He arched his back when Tom's thumb grazed past his hole, and couldn’t hold in a moan when Tom finally slipped a finger inside.

It didn't take long for Tom to add in another, and another, until eventually he was fucking Harry in earnest with four fingers. His hand on Harry's back held him down almost uncomfortably, but his fingers were so nice and wet and thick that a little uneasiness was easily ignored. He had Harry begging for him so quickly that Harry felt like he should be ashamed of himself, except that there was an aching emptiness inside him that practically _ hurt_, and Tom was the only one who could make it go away.

"Oh please," he gasped, arching his arse up against Tom's fingers and crotch. "Fuck me, _ fuck me_." He thought Tom might laugh at him again, amused at his desperation. Instead, Tom made an absolutely animalistic sound, like a groan but more feral, and ripped his fingers from Harry like he'd been burned. It took barely a second before he was pushing his cock up against Harry's arse, and then he was plunging into Harry, too eager to go slow.

He went deep right from the get go, fucking into him hard a few times before he thrust back in and held himself there, his hips pressed snug to Harry's arse, balls deep inside him. Tom took the opportunity to let his hand wander, sliding it and up under Harry's shirt to draw circles around Harry's nipples. The were already stiff, already aching, and Tom's touch felt like a balm, but only for a second. Before long he was pinching at them, twisting Harry's nipples so sharply it made him cry out.

It hurt, but it was so strange a pain—like there was a livewire straight from his chest to his dick. And he felt so _ full_—like he'd never be able to forget the feeling, the stretch of him so _ much_ that there was nothing else he could think about.

He reached back for Tom's hair, winding his fingers into the soft strands and _ yanked _, pulling him closer, gasping. "Harder," he pleaded, and before Tom could say anything, he pressed his mouth against Tom's.

It was awkward, kissing like that, but Tom had touched him everywhere by now, and not kissed him once. So he moved his arse back for Tom to fuck him, and pulled at Tom's hair until it elicited pained hisses. And Tom's hair was so nice—well taken care of, soft and silky and shiny. Tom put a lot of effort into it, Harry knew, and he might have said something, except he thought Tom's ego big enough already.

Then Tom was getting impatient, and he stopped. Harry protested wordlessly, breathless and finding it difficult to form coherent sentences, but before he could gather himself Tom was turning him around. He pushed Harry back against the sink and then kneeled, his cock hard and angry between his legs. He went about undoing Harry's shoes, forcing his feet up so he could take them off. Harry jumped up onto the rim of the sink, not wanting to dirty his stockings. Merlin knew when the floor had last been cleaned.

His panties pulled uncomfortably against his open arse as he scooted back, reminding him of what he'd just been doing. It felt a little like a fever dream—after all, Tom often used to help him take his shoes off all the time, but it had been far more innocent back then.

It gave Harry the opportunity to calm a little from the sensation of getting fucked. He felt a little more lucid, despite the fact that he could feel the drugged desire from before rising again in his blood. What had he ingested? How had he been drugged, by whom, and for what purpose?

Tom stood up, pressing close between Harry's thighs, and Harry's mind felt once again hazy with lust, but he couldn't help but think about how Tom had said, "Maybe if I'd been more patient."

Then Tom was lifting him, hooking his fingers into Harry's panties and sliding them down his legs and tossing them into the sink. He grabbed Harry's thighs, right where the fabric of his stockings ended, and his skin began. His fingers pressed hard into the muscle, moving slowly as if to explore the give, and he walked Harry into one of the stalls.

"Gross," Harry said, wrinkling his nose, but he was already pushing his wet, open arse against Tom's erection, so he didn't think Tom took him too seriously.

Nevertheless, Tom chuckled affectionately. "Don't worry, kitten, I'll keep you safe," he promised and sat down on the toilet seat. He spread his legs wide, even with Harry still perched on top of him, and held his cock steady with one hand.

"Go on then," he said. "It's your turn."

Harry leaned forward, holding up his skirt to his stomach, and arched down so that the head of Tom's cock was at his arse. He wanted to go slowly, tease Tom just as Tom had been teasing him, but he felt too tense and too desperate to be patient. So instead he sat down fast, and then gasped at the feeling of being so full so suddenly.

Tom groaned loudly, his hands flexing on Harry's thighs. "That's right," he moaned. "Fuck yourself on my cock like you were meant to do, like you were _ made _to do." He bucked up into Harry, as if unable to stop himself, or perhaps like he wanted to force Harry into motion.

Harry took the hint and started fucking himself on Tom. He held onto one of Tom's shoulders for support, his muscles aching before long. Tom's hands tightened on his thighs as if to feel the flex and strain of them as intimately as he could. Harry dropped himself onto Tom's cock as hard and fast as he could, rolling his hips when he got too tired, until he felt full in a different way. "I'm gonna—" he gasped, clenching sporadically around Tom's cock. "_ Please_."

But Tom didn't touch his cock. He smirked at Harry, ramming back into him suddenly and without warning. "What, you don't think you could come like this?" he asked, mocking. "You don't think you could come just on my cock?"

He leaned in close, his eyes glinting madly, and he whispered, "I believe in you."

Harry wanted to punch him on his smug, handsome face, but he could also feel his orgasm just _ there_, and really, that was far more important than Tom's shitty personality. So he sped up, letting himself fall down on Tom's cock hard again and again, panting hard. He ignored the ache in his thighs, trying desperately to chase his orgasm, and whining pitifully when it eluded him.

And still Tom wouldn't help him. He sat back, watching as if Harry was putting on some show or performance for him. Harry felt so _ tired_—knew he'd be feeling it for days—but he was so close that stopping now didn't even bear thinking about.

Tom reached one hand to his arse, traced the place where his cock slid into Harry and then up, until he was fingering the top of Harry's tail. His touch was gentle but firm, _m__eaningful_. He knew exactly what he was doing. And it reduced Harry to whimpers. He had always been sensitive there, of course, but it had always felt ticklish when someone brushed past his tail. Like a fly, walking along your skin—ticklish, but in a distinctly irritating way.

It had never felt like this before. He felt unbearably sensitive, gasping into Tom's smug mouth as he stroked softly along Harry's tail, and came all over Tom's shirt.

Then they sat there, foreheads pressed together, as Tom fucked him slowly through and past his orgasm. He felt like crying, his every nerve alight with Tom's touch, and it took him a while before he realised he actually _ was _ crying.

Later, Tom helped him stand up in silence. Harry leaned on his shoulders while Tom kneeled before him, helping him put his shoes back on, and watched Tom's eyelashes blink slow shadows against his cheeks. Harry felt like he needed a little time to think about what had happened, now that he'd calmed from the frenzied lust, so when Tom stood up he told him to go ahead.

Tom looked at him oddly. Harry might have called it apprehension, or maybe nervousness, except that Tom was far too proud and arrogant a man for uncertainty. Still, he felt softer after the day he'd had, so he let Tom kiss him slowly for what seemed like an age. Then he watched as Tom strode out of the toilets, the door swinging shut behind him, and took a deep breath.

It was only later, after he'd cleaned himself up and straightened his clothes, that he realised his panties were missing.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and cold, the snow so thick that Harry could see nothing but a blanket of white, and the grey of the sky. It was a weekend—a _ Hogsmeade_ weekend, and Harry had every intention of taking full advantage of it.

That morning, he didn't leave the bed until Ron had gotten Hermione, who had checked on him and decided he should definitely take the day to rest. He missed breakfast, but that was nothing a quick trip to the kitchens couldn't fix. Then he was off to the North side of the castle, where the more opulent staff quarters were situated. He had a date, after all.

By the time he reached Tom's chambers, it was already noon. Harry knocked and didn't have to wait long. The door swung open wide, and Tom looked just as perfectly put-together as always, except for the way his eyes widened when he saw Harry leaning against his doorway.

"Hello, professor," Harry purred, advancing on Tom's rapidly retreating form. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, tilting his head up prettily so he gave the impression of looking down at Tom, even though Tom was much taller than him.

"Harry," Tom murmured. His hands twitched by his side, as if he wanted to reach out and touch him, but wasn't sure if he should.

Harry smiled innocently at him. "I have a problem I was hoping you could help me with," he admitted. Tom looked intrigued, but also a touch worried. Like he'd done something questionable and was wondering which of the possible consequences he was facing. Harry slid one foot up the door so that his knee was bent, the fabric of his skirt rising with it.

"You see," he continued. "I seem to have misplaced a rather... _ important _item of clothing."

Tom went a little pale, and then red again when he managed to see what was between Harry's legs, his skirt raised indecently as it was.

Harry was, of course, not wearing any underwear.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then Harry was moving and shoving Tom into his armchair, and sliding onto his lap like he belonged there. "I expected a lot of things from you," he said, coming closer so that his legs were on either side of Tom's. "What I didn't expect was to find out you were such a _ pervert_."

Tom froze, but Harry only delighted in his awkwardness. "I mean," he continued loudly. "Stealing a teenage boy's panties? His _ used _panties? How _ embarrassing_!"

Their position was such that Tom had to look up at Harry, and Harry enjoyed the sight of him like this immensely.

"Did you sniff them?" Harry asked. "Did you get hard, thinking about me wearing them?" Tom's hands had gone to his waist, and were clenching tighter with every word that same out of Harry's mouth. Harry hoped he'd leave bruises. He pressed his mouth to Tom's forehead in a mockery of a kiss, then yanked at Tom's hair so he was looking up properly, his lips parted.

"It's okay," he said sweetly. "I thought about you too. I thought about you _ knowing _I was going to be drugged, and being so desperate that you just _ had _to fuck me then. Did you enjoy it? Did you like it when I was so obedient, so _ easy _?"

Tom's hands slid higher, until they were on Harry's back and in Harry's hair and pushing him down, until their mouths were barely a breath apart. "Harry," he said. "Let me explain." He sounded remarkably calm, but Harry knew him well enough to know his mind was racing.

He kissed Tom, just a little, and then rocked back until his arse pressed into Tom's crotch. "There's nothing to explain," he said. "You're a horny old man, and I'm a young, pretty boy. Of course you were desperate. But," and he reached around, so he was holding Tom's face in both his hands. "Things are going to be a little _ different_ from now on."

He was going to show Tom exactly _ who_ was in charge here.


End file.
